Page 23 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
They were both middle class, he’d said. Equals.
That meant he shouldn’t be sleeping in the yard.
Verity took a seat where he pulled out a chair. He’d filled their bowls with a delicious stew and set out plates of bread and salad,and what appeared to be wine. Once he sat, she tasted it and frowned. “Do we know what this is?”
“Found it in the pantry. It’s too sweet for vinegar.” Rafe shrugged and lathered a roll with butter.
“Elderberry,” Mrs. Underhill offered. “There’s a few who sell it at the market for medicinal purposes.”
“I trust we won’t be poisoning ourselves in cleaning out the pantry.” Verity was fairly certain Miss Edgerton would label anything deadly—although would they know if something labeledwolfsbanewas fatal? The bottles Mrs. Walker had carried away hadn’tseemedpoisonous.
“I had a glass before serving it,” Rafe said complacently. “I’m not writhing in agony, so one assumes it’s safe. I’ve found no equipment for distilling, so I think she was limited to powders and herbs.”
“Oh, I didn’t think to ask at the mercantile for her elixir. I wonder who she intended that for?” Verity was relieved at the casual conversation, but the pall of suspicion hanging between them was uncomfortable. She took another sip of wine for fortification. She’d never had spirits of any sort. She couldn’t decide if she liked it.
“If anyone wants the elixir bad enough, they’ll show up at the door.” Mrs. Underhill deigned to contribute to the conversation.
“But we won’t know what to mix with it. She should have kept records on who took what.” Rafe dug into his stew.
Verify froze, her fork of salad halfway to her lips. “What if shedidkeep medical records? And the killer was after them?”
Rafe stopped eating long enough to swallow.
“The bookshelves,” they both said at once.
FIFTEEN: RAFE
As they searchedthe parlor after supper, Rafe forgot his irritation at the widow for avoiding his question about who she was. Mrs.—Verity—was industrious in her search for her friend’s killer. Ignoring her skirts, she sat on the floor to work through the books on the bottom shelves, while he scoured the top. He wasn’t much of a student, so he passed his volumes on to Mrs. Underhill for further inspection. And to keep her occupied.
“Oh, she has children’s stories! Look at the lovely illustrations. I wonder who did this? It’s hand painted.” Pushing the curious kitten aside, Verity flipped through the sturdy pages.
She had said she’d wanted to be a teacher, he reminded himself. Teachers were harmless.
Miss Edgerton apparently hadn’t been.
“These books on top seem to be about plants and herbs. Do you think she was a self-taught herbalist? And these drawings look hand drawn as well.” He handed down a watercolor illustrated portfolio.
“Miss Edgerton always had a talent for art. I wonder if she did these herself?” Verity took the portfolio to admire.
“She had fancy friends visit,” Mrs. Underhill said. “Come in carriages, bringing baskets. Reckon that’s where she got some ofthese. But her ma and grandma started the garden. They knew a little of everything. She’d of learned from them.”
He’d known he should have been talking to old ladies. Trying to look nonchalant, Rafe put a volume back in its place. “Of course, this cottage belonged to her family. I’d forgotten that. How did she become a governess at a fancy boarding school?”
“Her grandma worked for the old earl that was. When he left the manor to his son, he took his own staff to one of his fancier estates. She married above herself, sent her children to school. Anne’s mother married well and so forth.” The elderly lady went back to holding books under the lamp.
“But they always returned here to visit?” Verity suggested, drawing out their companion.
“Aye, more than visit. Men always manage to get themselves killed, don’t they? At least they had a place of their own to go to.” Finding a book to her liking, she got up and trundled off to bed.
“There’s a story there,” Verity murmured.
“Women don’t often own property—another story.” Rafe started on the next shelf. So, women kept secrets. He almost understood. He’d wager some former Wycliffe had given Miss Edgerton’s female ancestors possession of this cottage for a reason. “I haven’t heard your story yet.”
Verity hesitated, flipping pages of the book she was perusing. He waited.
“My father wasn’t gentry but earned his fortune,” she finally said in a low voice he almost missed. “My mother... was disowned for marrying below her station, even though my father was quite well off. I am their only child. I had every expectation of marrying well, which is why they hired Miss Edgerton.”
She was being deliberately circumspect, hiding her identity and that of her parents—but giving him a glimpse of who she was: well-educated and related to gentry. Since she didn’t offer, he didn’t press to learn what happened. Yet. Obviously, her family no longer had wealth. Or she was running away.
